


From Guernica, with love

by dailandin



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Historical References, M/M, Post-Canon, Spanish Civil War, Wizarding Politics, Wizarding World, grey morality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 18:31:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12823539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dailandin/pseuds/dailandin
Summary: 26th of April 1937. Spain is at War. At the behest of General Franco, the Nazi German Condor Legion launches an aerial attack over the Basque town of Guernica, a communications centre just North of the frontlines. Hundreds die, most of them civilians, and three quarters of the town's buildings are torn to rubble.Or, at least, this is how the incident is reported in the no-maj papers.Credence Barebone is on the run. Percival Graves is determined to hunt him down. A game of cat and mouse across a country torn apart by Civil War.





	From Guernica, with love

**Author's Note:**

> Ta-da! New fic I really shouldn't have started, but couldn't help myself. This one has been knocking around my brain for months now, and I finally managed to shape this first chapter into something I'm happy to share.
> 
> For those of who who are familiar with my work, be warned that this one won't be half has happy and fluffy as my usual fare. I'm trying for a bit of angst and, even though I know some joke will inevitable sneak through, the mood of the fic won't exactly be candy and rainbows. There's a War going on, people, and both Credence and Percival are far more angry and jadded than in the movie (years have not been kind)
> 
> As a warning: the Spanish Civil War is still a pretty sensitive topic in Spain, and opinions about it are pretty divided. I'm not even gonna pretend I can be 100% neutral and objective about it. I'm Catalan, my whole family has been left-wing supporters for generations, my grandparents have told me dozens of stories of what life was like in Post-War Spain for the defeated, and my parents have similar stories about growing up on the last years of the dictatorship. Last month's political crisis in Catalonia has also stirred some serious shit up. I'm gonna try and avoid pointless pettiness, and give a more or less balanced view of things, but I know my bias will shine through from time to time, please, forgive me in advance.
> 
> (On the other hand - please, let's not forget that the Nationalist side were fucking fascists, allied with the Nazis, who organised a coup against the legitamte governement because they lost the elections)
> 
> Chapter title taken from a Lluis Llach song protesting Franco's dictatorship, you can listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FflmtXrShHI). It roughly translates as "Bells toll for the dead"

_ 26th of April 1937 _

Sargento Gutiérrez is there when he comes to, with a bulky, army-issue, coat already open for Credence to slip his arms into. The kindness of the gesture is somewhat marred by the barely disguised sneer on the man’s face. He does not like, or trust, Credence and has not hesitated to make this known to him several times over.

It is fine. Credence does not like him either. His fervent religious devotion skims too close to Mary Lou’s for his comfort, even with its distinct Catholic flavour, and his thin, neatly-trimmed moustache reminds him of Grindelwald in the worst possible way.

They do not need to like each other to get the job done. They just need to follow the orders they have been given. Nothing more, nothing less. In a war where brothers and neighbors find themselves arbitrarily pitted against each other, apathy is definitely the preferred option.

Credence finishes shrugging on the coat, turning up the collar and stuffing his hands inside the pockets. Spring is still nothing more than a faint whisper, and the air in the Basque mountains is still too cold for comfort. He sets off, stepping carefully on bare feet, since Gutiérrez conveniently forgot to get him some boots again. 

Behind him the ruins of what remains of Guernica smoke faintly in the late afternoon twilight. Some muggle planes fly through the sky, the German swastika proudly displayed on their sides. They are to be their cover up, Grindelwald had said, a small courtesy from the German Führer to thank them for their ongoing support of the Spanish Nationalists. Credence does not exactly see the point. It is not like the victims, or the few remaining survivors, will care too much one way or the other if their city was destroyed by bombs or by dark magic. It is still nothing but burnt rubble in the end.

But this has never been about the people of Guernica. It is not even about Spain, no matter what Grindelwald likes to tell the General. This is, and always has been, about Grindelwald testing and refining his weapons in advance for His War. Guernica was just a test, more will come. The Siege of Madrid is starting to test the General’s patience, and the Front of Aragón has been quiet for far too long. Credence is sure Grindelwald will not waste the chance to stir things up.

++

Despite the success of Guernica, Credence is forced to lay low. The War in the North, as Gutiérrez is calling it, still rages on and, with most lines of transport and communication cut, they are forced to hide out in the Basque mountains, waiting for the chance to make their way back to Nationalist territory.

“It’s all the fault of those fucking Sorguiñak” Gutiérrez angrily declares as he starts putting up the wards on the rundown forest cabin they will be calling home for the foreseeable future “Only they would be crazy enough as to block apparition in the whole Basque Region. The Virrey should have shut them, and their immoral Aquelarres, down years ago”

Personally, Credence cannot help but admire the Sorguiñak. Warding off an entire region so hermetically requires enormous amounts of power, not to mention precise coordination and forward thinking. The General’s troops may be gaining ground against the Basque Army, but La Corte is no closer to taking control of the Basque Aquelarres now than they were a year ago. Not to mention that, however inadvertently, they have also managed to pretty much capture and incapacitate Grindelwald’s deadliest weapon without spilling a single drop of blood.

He tries to get Gutiérrez to tell him more about Basque wizards. After bearing testimony to the strict bureaucracy of MACUSA, the stuffy traditions of British wizards, and the rigid discipline of the Regjeringen, the local Aquelarre councils, that pretty much are the only sort of governing body accepted by the Sorguiñak, seem like a nice, refreshing change.

Of course Gutiérrez is completely useless at providing any sort of valuable insight. The mere mention of the Sorguiñak has him started on an impassioned rant against their depraved ways, their irresponsible disregard for the Statue of Secrecy and the stubbornness with which they guard their magical knowledge. According to him, La Corte, and the wizards associated with it, are the only legit magic practitioners in the whole country. The Galician Meigas are a bunch of loonies, the Sorguiñak depraved savages, and the Catalan Bruixots greedy and conceited, and neither of them are any good at being proper wizards or Spaniards. 

It is not long before Credence gives up on trying to maintain any type of conversation with his housemate, tired of impassioned speeches about the Greatness of Spain, the General and La Corte, and all the critical thinking capacity of a five year old school bully. It is like hearing Grindelwald’s already familiar rant about The Greater Good with half the charisma, and a terrible accent to boot.

Luckily for him, Gutiérrez seems just as uninterested in spending any time in his company, and takes to wandering through the woods -”Hunting for  _ rojos separatistas _ ”- for most of the day, leaving Credence alone, with nothing but his thoughts, in the dilapidated cabin.

Once a few weeks pass, and the threat of capture seems less immediate, they start venturing into some nearby villages to buy food and get fresh news on the War. This is how they find out about the Anarchist attempted coup in Catalonia and the failed Republican offensives in Huesca and Segovia. Little has changed overall, with both sides apparently locked on an uneasy standstill where no one can manage to gain a clear upper hand.

Resigning themselves to a long wait, the first order of business then becomes to make contact with La Corte, to inform the Virrey and, by consequence, Grindelwald of their situation. A feat easier said than done, as they soon discover. Their little cabin is not linked to any sort of Floo network, and the anti-apparition field prevents any other Magical communications, leaving them reliant on muggle methods, which have also been severely crippled by the War.

After a few failed attempts at sending their message via locally bought couriers, and just as Gutiérrez seems about ready to explode from frustration, a telegram arrives for them at the local town hall. It is only five words, looking deceptively innocent on the small slip of paper the slightly confused operator hands them.

_ Graves in Spain. Lay Low _

The news do not come much as a surprise. The man has been sniping at Grindelwald’s heels for years now, a rabid, furious dog with an insatiable appetite for the hunt and little to no mercy for those who dare stand in his way.

Percival Graves used to be the star of Credence’s dreams when he was young, and foolish, and thought himself in love with the man. Now, he is the stuff of nightmares.

He has killed more of Grindelwald’s followers himself than the whole British Ministry and the Regjeringen combined. Unlike them, though, he does not seem to hesitate to use the Killing Curse, any of the other Unforgivables, or a whole array of combat spells, so Dark even Grindelwald finds them questionable, to bring in his targets.

In a cruel twist of irony, it turns out Grindelwald ended up making monsters of them both.

++

The nightmares were to be expected. The last time, the only time, really, that Credence had released the Obscurus and murdered anyone, had been ten years ago, and one could argue that the New York Incident had more of involuntary manslaughter than actual, premeditated murder. 

His control had been much worse back then as well, and the whole incident remains no more than a blur in his mind, with the few dashes of full consciousness so few and far between, that they seem more like a dream than any lived reality. 

Guernica is a whole other matter. 

After ten years studying under Grindelwald, working on ways to improve his control over the Obscurus, to refine it, and hone it into a precise, and immensely destructive, weapon, he has managed to retain full consciousness whenever he gives into his inner beast. A good, incredibly useful ability, when the only thing he was meant to do with his Obscurus was float around Nurmengard and smash wooden practice dummies, and a terrible, if somehow befitting, curse after he has used it to destroy Guernica. The blurred, confusing daze from New York would be a welcome alternative to the vivid, clear cut, memories he now has of Guernica. He remembers every building he tore down, every face he twisted with his Darkness, until nothing but a charred mess remained, every scream lost within the rage of the Obscurus.

The mere thought of being asked for a repeat performance -in Madrid, maybe in Bilbao, or across the plains of Zaragoza- fills him with dread, and he silently prays for the Sorguiñak to keep them trapped in the Basque Country until this blasted war is over. Enduring Gutiérrez’s company for months being a much preferable alternative to having to unleash the Obscurus again and adding even more terrifying and gruesome imagery to his nightmare fodder. 

The third option, failing to release the Obscurus, does not even bear thinking about.

Grindelwald is not the kind of man who takes failure well. Credence still remembers when the papers published the news of Percival Graves’ rescue. Grindelwald had been livid. He had taken the paper out of Credence’s stunned hands and incinerated it with so much force he burned a hole through the carpet. He had ranted and raved for hours, spitting and hissing, as he described the increasingly gruesome ways in which he was planning to kill the man.

Credence had not even been aware that Percival Graves actually existed until then. He had always thought the man had been nothing but an illusion created by Grindelwald, a random disguise to avoid detection by MACUSA. Learning that Grindelwald had actually taken someone else’s name and face had come as a bit of a shock.

He had wondered if he had ever met the real man before Grindelwald had replaced him. Maybe Mr. Graves, the attentive and good Mr. Graves, had been real. Maybe he would search for Credence, now that he was free. It had been a nice thought.

Of course Grindelwald had been quick to put a cruel, quick end to it.

“Oh, wipe that dreaming look off your face” he had hissed at him, during a brief pause in his violent tantrum “You never ever met the man. I was the one who approached you in the first place, and it’s not like dear old Percy would have never given you the time of the day. Far as I know the man has no appetite for cock” 

Credence had blushed, in humiliation, prompting Grindelwald to burst into cackling laughter.

“Oh, don’t look so down, boy” he had leered at him, one pale eyebrow raised suggestively “I could always wear his face, if it would please you” he had suggested, tracing one pale finger over Credence jawline.

Revulsion had clogged up Credence’s throat as he shuddered in disgust at the touch. 

No. Failing Grindelwald is definitely not in the cards for him. Not if he wants to survive, and Credence definitely intends to do so. It is the main thing he has always been good at, whether it be by staying silent and bearing Mary Lou’s hate and abuse, or by allowing Grindelwald to transform him into a weapon of mass destruction. He has sacrificed much in his never-ending quest for survival, and while meeting his end at the hands of Grindelwald is pretty much not option he is even willing to contemplate, neither is losing what little remains of his sanity to the horrors caused by the Obscurus’ rage.

It may be time for Credence to disappear once again.

++

Convincing Gutiérrez to give him Spanish lessons is easy enough, mostly due to the man’s longstanding belief that there could be no greater joy to be found than being able to speak what he considers to be the most beautiful language in the World.

“We used to be an Empire” he often muses, making sure to always remark on how the United States had, apparently, conspired to take that from them by helping free the Colonies. He always looks accusingly at Credence at that, as if he were somehow at fault for his country of origin’s Overseas policies.

Imperialist nostalgia aside, Gutiérrez is a surprisingly apt teacher, and it does not take Credence long to become rudimentarily familiar with the language. He has always been a quick learner, even if no one in his life has particularly noticed or cared about it. He spends most of his free time practicing, getting his mouth used to the harshly rolled ‘ars’ and the lisp-like ‘cees’ and ‘zees’. The mental exercise has the added advantage of momentarily allowing him to forget the screams that haunt his nightmares, which only strengthens Credence dedication to it.

By the time October rolls around, bringing with it swaths of rolling mist and cold winds, Credence is as ready as he can be.

++

“The shield is getting weaker” Gutiérrez points out one morning as they finish their frugal breakfast.

After the Fall of Bilbao in early summer a Nationalist victory seemed inevitable but, despite the steady stream of news announcing the advance of Franco’s troops, the Sorguiñak’s anti-apparition shield had remained as strong and invulnerable as the very first day. Its weakening can only mean one thing: the War of the North is coming to an End.

“We should start packing” Guitérrez says, echoing Credence’s own thoughts “The moment this thing is down we need to move. I have a portkey rigged to take us straight to Toledo, but I’m not taking any risks”

Credence nods absently, pushing around the remains of bland, watery porridge in his bowl. His essentials have been packed up for weeks now, even if he has kept an array of discardable items laying around the cabin to maintain the appearance of normalcy. His provisions are stored about a mile south of their cabin, in a swallow hole covered by fallen bushes and notice-me-not charms. It should take him no longer than ten minutes to collect them. After that, it is two hours walking at good pace until he reaches the main road. It should take him no time to be able to find a ride once there, either a good samaritan willing to offer him a seat or some poor fool easy to hijack. By the time Gutiérrez notices him gone he will already be on his way out of the region and, with the apparition shield still holding, out of his reach long enough for him to build a comfortable lead.

He forces himself to follow the usual routine, cleaning and drying the dishes and the cooking pot, to avoid arising Gutiérrez suspicions. It is not challenging to present a calm façade, it is a skill he is well-versed on, after years under Mary Lou’s roof, but that does not prevent the morning from crawling in an agonizingly slow fashion. Tension thrums underneath his skin even as he sits by the fire and pretends to read the latest newspaper, the words blurring and fading before his eyes. He needs to keep reminding himself to turn the page in order to maintain the charade.

When Gutiérrez finally announces he is leaving, around noon, it is all Credence can do to stop a sigh of relief leaving his lips. He remains seated, newspaper clutched between trembling hands, as the sound of Gutiérrez footsteps fades away. He makes himself wait five more minutes, ten more, until he finally springs up, running to his room and unearthing his meager belongings from underneath his bed. After a quick check of the cabin, and another more thorough one of its surroundings, he finally sets off.

He keeps his pace brisk and purposeful, but slow enough to be excused as a rather energising forest walk should he be discovered. He makes it to the hiding spot in less time than he planned and quickly sets to digging out the provisions. His heart is pounding rapidly against his chest, the nerves that have now building up for weeks, finally catching up with him. He ignores it, pushing aside the slight physical discomfort and focusing his efforts on the task at hand.

When his hands touch the familiar metallic cover of the storage box, he finally lets a small, proud smile touch the corner of his lips. For a second, escape seems like a real, tangible possibility, and then, just as quickly, that possibility is gone.

“Hands up, you  _ cabrón cobarde” _

Credence stills at the sound of Gutiérrez’s voice. His muscles tensing up, even as he lets himself caress the cold lid of the box one last time, before slowly raising his hands.

“Now turn around” Gutiérrez instructs “Slowly”

Credence does. Shuffling on his knees until he is staring back at the other man, all the while keeping his face blank and doing his best to suppress the rising panic clawing at his throat. He needs to keep calm. He knows he can take Gutiérrez if he needs to, a single, average wizard is no match for an fully-grown and trained Obscurus, but facing him will draw attention, and that, he cannot afford.

“Thought you were being sneaky, eh?” Gutiérrez taunts, slowly advancing towards him, wand steadily pointed and at the ready “Thought I didn’t notice you hiding the food, hiding your bag?” He spits viciously to the side “I knew all along, you  _ yanki de mierda _ , knew you were not to be trusted from the very first day”

Credence grinds his teeth, clamping down at the urge to snipe back at him. It will serve no purpose and he cannot afford any more mistakes. Escaping unnoticed is no longer an option, and returning to Grindelwald is firmly off the table as well, there is no telling what the man will do if he finds out Credence attempted to run, and he has no intention to risk it. Going on the run, off the grid, remains his best bet and, in order to do so, Gutiérrez must go. He would have rather liked to avoid any more murders, but cannot see any other way out. He swallows, takes a deep breath to steel himself. Once you have already killed once, and your soul has been branded for Hell, one more death will not make much of a difference. Or so he desperately tells himself as he reaches within to awaken the Obscurus.

“Don’t you fucking dare-!” Gutiérrez shouts once he realises Credence’s intentions, quickly backing away, as he raises his wand in a defensive stance.

But, before he can even mutter a protective spell, or Credence has a chance to strike him, a bright red flash streams from between the trees to impact upon his chest, throwing him backwards and knocking him out cold. Another red flash strikes Credence, and although most of the impact is absorbed by the emerging Obscurus, it still knocks him to the ground, leaving him gasping for air and disoriented. As he struggles to get back up, ears ringing and hands scrambling against the bare ground, he can hear the sound of people approaching through the forest, fast feet crushing fallen leaves and voices shouting in the distance. 

Just as he manages to right himself, another stunning spell flashes him by, missing his head only by a few centimeters. He stumbles, feet dragging against pointy rocks and bushes, as he starts to run back to the cabin, one of his bags lost and discarded on the ground, the box of provisions still half buried, and his only remaining bag half-hanging from his shoulder.

“ _ Arrêtez-vous _ !” A voice shouts at his back, as yet another spell misses its mark.

French. Probably part of the wizard groups that joined the Republican International Brigade, maybe some francophone Sorguiñak. Neither option is particularly appealing, and so Credence pushes himself to run faster, ignoring the pounding in his head and the burning sensation in his lungs as he struggles to draw air. Familiarity with the terrain plays in his favour, as he is able to circumvent most obstacles without them slowing him down and it allows him to gain a bit of distance from his pursuers.

When he reaches the cabin he shuts the doors and windows with a quick wave of his wand, and immediately activates the wards Gutiérrez and him had set up all those months ago. They will not hold indefinitely against a team of trained wizards, as his attackers seem to be, but they will buy him time.

The first thing he does is locate the portkey Gutiérrez had set up, which does not prove to difficult. The anti-apparition shield keeps weakening and it will not be long before it is completely gone. Toledo may not be his ideal destination, but it will take him far away from the immediate danger and he can always apparate away somewhere else once he is not restrained by the shield anymore.

The second thing he does is reinforce the wards. He can already hear and feel the impact of multiple breaching spells attempting to break through, in order for him to have a chance to use the portkey he needs the wards to hold until the anti-apparition shield has fallen.

Not for the first time, he resents Grindelwald’s offense-focused teachings, as his warding skills leave much to be desired. It does not matter how much energy he pours into the spells, how many times he repeats the words,  _ Fianto Duri, Fianto Duri _ , like a never ending prayer, he can feel the wards crack and tear by the second as they are battered once, and once again, with brutally strong spells. Whoever is outside his door is a right beast.

++

By the time the sun sets, Credence has spent five hours holding up the wards, his wand clutched in his sweaty hands, as his stomach cramps with hunger, and fatigue inexorably pulls at his limbs. His attackers seem to be slowing down as well, the spells not half as strong as earlier, and not fired as often.

He can hear their mumbled voices from beyond the thick stone walls. There appears to be some kind of discussion going on, with some of the voices raising in volume at random intervals, only to be silenced abruptly, before resuming in a lower tone. Unfortunately for him, the same walls that so effectively protect him, also prevent him from making out any clear words from the conversations. So far, the only things he has been able to tell are that he is dealing with a group of five, three men and two women, and that they seem to speak in English between them, even if some clearly have another native language.

When both the voices and the spells stop, Credence braces himself. His throat is sore from repeating incantations all day long, but he does not stop, his hoarse voice the only sound on the otherwise silent room.

_ “Protego Maxima, Fianto Duri, Protego Maxima, Fianto Duri”  _ A knock on the door makes him pause for a moment, but he quickly reprises his chant, unwilling to let himself be distracted. 

“You are surrounded” says a deep, American-accented voice from the other side of the door, and the spell words suddenly stick on the back of Credence’s throat as it closes down in panic. He recognises that voice.

“Give yourself up now and you will make it out alive, resist and we won’t be so lenient”

Air suddenly seems to be in short supply as Credence struggles to breathe. He is suddenly twenty-four again, starved for affection and hope, believing in the empty promises of a beautiful man in an elegant suit.

“I’m going to count to ten” Percival Graves says, and then, just as he starts the slow and foreboding countdown, Credence feels it. A crack in the shield. There is no time to wallow in nostalgia and regrets.

“Seven, Six-” Graves’ deep voice continues, unperturbed.

Credence bolts out of his chair.

“-Four, Three-”

He goes to grab the Nationalist flag Gutiérrez had fashioned into a portkey.

“-Two, One”

Just as his hands grasps the rough cloth, the front door bursts into pieces, filling the room with debris and the sharp, metallic smell of magic. From within the falling rubble, Credence can distinguish a painfully familiar form, slicked back hair, wide shoulders and self-assured strut, that makes cold sweat trickle down his neck, just as he feels the familiar pull of the portkey at the top of his stomach.

As the world rapidly dissolves into a swirl of black and grey, a bright green light flashes before his eyes, and a sharp, unbearable pain erupts across his chest. He is swept up in a storm of magic, spinning out of control, for what seems like an eternity. His chest hurts, a burning sensation that quickly spreads to his limbs until his whole body is in agony.

And then, as suddenly as it started, it all stops. 

++

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and sorry for the cliffhanger. I'm afraid you'll have to wait extra-long to know what happens to Credence because next one is from Percival's POV (I'm the worst. Sorry)
> 
> If you liked it, please leave me a comment, I'm a total slut for them and you will make my day
> 
> Some historic trivia:  
> \- Basque Region: or as I call it "Chuck Norris Land". Basques were an independent kingdom for centuries, only joining up to the rest of Spain at the end of the Middle Ages. They have their own language (Euskera, so bloody complicated no one knows where the fuck it came from) and a reputation for being extremely tough (national sports include rock lifting, and playing squash with no raquets and using their bare hands)  
> \- The Nationalists i.e. the fascist side, were allied with Hitler and Mussolini, so I thought it would only make sense for them to be in bed with Grindelwald as well. "The General" Credence references is none other Francisco Franco, who would go one to become the country's last dictator.  
> \- Sorguiñak: is literally "witch" in Euskera (the tongue spoken in the Basque region). I like the idea of different Spanish regions having their own wizarding traditions, same as they do languages. The Sorguiñak (Basque), La Corte (Castillians) and the Bruixots (Catalan) will be the ones more heavily featured in the story, although I hope to be able to squish in some references to Las Meigas or the Arabic traditions in the South.  
> \- Republican International Brigade: officially, no other country supported the Spanish governement agaisnt the coup (with US not caring, and most of Europe playing the ostrich, and doing a wonderful job of hiding their head on the sand, pretending Hitler was not involved), but regional communist groups organised as guerrillas and came to fight for the Republican side (most famous one is probably George Orwell, who wrote _Homage to Catalonia_ based on his experience)  
>  \- The colonies Gutiérrez references (and blames Credence for losing) are Cuba and Puerto Rico


End file.
